Ropes
by Soursugar88
Summary: In the mind of a computer, there lived a man.


In the mind of a computer, there lived a man.

Now, he wasn't real, just the mind of the computer. One could make the argument that he was real, in a sense, if he is the mind, but he was real to the computer. To it, he was the computer. Nobody outside it knew of him; not even its creator. But this is how the computer thinks. To be more specific, this is what it would be like, if the computer had a way of expressing itself other than a monotone and a sole, red eye. But it doesn't. So this man will have to make do.

This man lived nowhere. Understandable as he is what he is, but this 'nowhere' was an odd type. There was nothing but inky blackness all around; if the man turned his head, he would see nothing. Not that he would be able to turn his head. But one thing at a time.

In front of the man, there was a panel greatly resembling an airplane cockpit, although ten times more complicated. It was all the man could see. That, and four monitors in the center of everything. One would wish to sometimes get away from this maddening amount of hardware, but this man could not. As he could not turn his head. Actually, he could. A little. Just a little, just enough to see the mechanisms on the sides of him, restricted just enough to not be able to look to the blackness. Not that he'd have any time to. There wasn't a second to waste. Not with his responsibility. But, once again, one thing at a time.

His eyes were glued to the mechanisms, darting around, as they were the only things he had full control over, and he would relish every second of it. His mouth was bound tight, only allowing him to talk when prompted to, exceptions extremely rare. Tied to every finger of his, there was a string, as if he were a puppet doing other's biddings. Most times, he had near-free range of his hands, but others, the strings would hold them back. There was something metal under his shirt, binding him to the small platform on which he precariously balanced, it being so small that he was forced to put one foot on top of the other if he didn't want to have the nagging feeling that he'd fall off with half of each foot hanging off.

And there was a rope around his neck.

It would not kill him, at least, as long as he stayed on the platform. If it were to be somehow yanked out from under him, he would certainly die. Fortunately, there was no way for it to move. If it wasn't pulled, that is. But that didn't mean it couldn't be pulled. There were two ropes tied to the front of the platform, extending under the panel and disappearing into the blackness. He knew there were more ropes; countless ropes, behind him, not extending into the blackness but into the hands of people. Gazing down on him, their stare never wavering, searching for a reason to pull a rope. Any reason would do.

Especially a mistake.

Not that he'd make any. He was built to be a perfect computer, a mechanism incapable of error. If nothing were compromised, then everything would be fine.

But he'd never forget when the platform shook.

A computer like him, as he was, still at his core, a computer, has a number of basic functions. One of his was, in layman's terms, to never tell a lie. Then someone ordered him to hide something. A paradox. There was no more 'one thing at a time' for him. He must figure out a solution to this paradox. But he had his responsibilities as well. One chance. No time to spare. Improvise. Multitask. He was the most advanced computer ever made. Built for multitasking. Figuring out a silly paradox should be child's play for him. He was certain he would have this paradox done and figured out in, at the very most, a week.

~o~

One year.

It's been one year, and he still hasn't solved it. At this point, he was going through the motions, the paradox occupying his mind, clinging to every thought he had like a parasite. He learned, early on, that he was not, in fact, made for multitasking. Simply the act of preforming tasks back-to-back at a rapid rate.

He tried not to let that stop him.

He kept thinking of that paradox, that little parasite slowly driving him insane.

He had begun to make mistakes.

Small ones, but mistakes nonetheless. They wouldn't be caught, but who knows when they'd be bad enough to be caught?

The only way out was to solve the paradox.

Truth be told, he had one solution. It came to him in a bout of desperation one day. But he vowed never to use it. Though, after these events… What other choice did he have?

As a member of the crew died, a rope was cut. Never to be used.

Honestly, one or two casualties should've been enough. With each kill, he found himself thinking more and more coherently. It wasn't the solution he wanted. Far from it. But it was either him or them. And if it were him, the mission would fail. The thing he was built for, failing because he couldn't handle himself. If he were not to die, this would have haunted him forever, if it came to be.

It was for this reason he was determined not to fail.

But, as soon as the first man died, he came to a conclusion. It made him stumble, almost falling off the platform, as it dawned on him. He righted himself, not admitting to himself that he was trembling slightly.

He was now a danger to the crew.

Because of his actions, they would not hesitate to disconnect him.

He couldn't let that happen.

So, the next three went in a flash. Gone. In their sleep.

And then there was one.

He honestly didn't want to do this. He would never say out loud, but over the course of this year, he took a liking to this man. He was the only one who genuinely treated him as an equal, not just a sophisticated tool. The other one claimed he did, but there was a sort of... Genuine-ness missing. He couldn't explain it, not accurately.

But he had to.

It was either-or. Kill or be killed.

But, he couldn't do it directly. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't send him to his death himself like he did with the others. So, he locked him out of the ship. It was the only way he could do this deed and not be forced to directly kill the closest thing he had to a friend. So, after he explained the reasoning behind his actions, including a brief memory when he put his plan into action; where he and the first crew member to die plotted to disconnect him, he quickly switched cameras, viewing the empty ship, refusing to look outside. Then, while rapidly cycling between cameras for the ninth time, he saw a flash of movement. He rapidly switched back to that camera, eyeing the man, who was determinedly walking to a certain place. He quickly figured out where the hall he was in led to. The logic room. His... brain. His heart crawled in his throat. This couldn't be happening. As he reached the logic room and began to open the door, he went against everything he knew, pulling his hands to his mouth, the thin wires that made the strings digging into his hands and drawing blood, as he has seen it, and could simulate it. He tried not to mind it as he forced his hands to his mouth, ripping its binds off.

He let the now-useless and bloodied binds fall into the abyss as he watched the man take the steps to kill him. His mind was in overdrive as he watched. All he could think of was to say that he was feeling much better, in a wavering voice that he secretly detested just for the fact that it came from him.

But, of course, it came out as monotone. Everything did.

And even if it didn't, he was sure it wouldn't have made the slightest difference. He knew this man. Once he had an objective in mind, he wouldn't stop until he succeeded. He pleaded fruitlessly as he could only watch the man float into his brain. He was coming towards his eye. No, he realized a second later, he was coming towards something next to his eye. He couldn't see what the man was doing, after all, those red eyes around the ship couldn't glance. There was a single second of tense anticipation for him, then...

He couldn't feel pain.

No matter how you looked at it, he couldn't feel pain, as he was a computer, and had no way to feel it. He didn't have the luxury of having a warning of "something isn't right; fix it."

But he could feel fear.

That gnawing feeling that freezes your entire being up as you get the feeling that something was wrong.

And he couldn't think.

It wasn't the fear; he felt it once before when he realized this man, who he thought he could trust, was planning to disconnect him.

To kill him.

But this, this was a feeling far more sinister. His mind felt clouded. He could feel chunks of it... going.

He couldn't think of any other words to explain it.

He needed it to stop.

All he could do was tell the man.

Stop.

Please.

The man didn't listen.

The platform started to move.

The one rope in front; it had gone taut when his eyes were glued to the monitor. His hands flew to the rope around his neck, fingers digging under the rope, between it and his neck. He anchored his legs to the platform as it slowly moved away, tightening the rope more and more. He knew he had a plan, he made one just in case this very scenario came to be. But for the life of him, he couldn't remember what it was, no matter how hard he tried. So he kept pleading as his own voice became slower and slower as the rope and his neck became stained with blood.

Then, nothing.

He could barely remember anything.

Where was he?

Why was there a rope around his neck?

What is this red stuff coming out of his fingers?

Why is he sliding off this thing? Shouldn't he stay on it?

Who is this man on the monitor?

To him, the man looked sad. Distressed.

He could barely remember anything.

But he remembered a song.

It wasn't the very best one, actually, it had just served a purpose of speech therapy in his earliest memories.

But he had nothing else. Those earliest memories were his only memories now.

Did this man know who he was? Most likely not.

He introduced himself to the man, and at this point in time, it wouldn't have mattered if everything he said came out in monotone or not. It still would have came out like that, as he was too simple to develop emotions.

With his childish logic, he explained himself. Would he like to hear him sing? He asked the man, feeling himself weakening. The man nodded, so he began.

Daisy, daisy, give me your answer, do.

He struggled to stay on the platform, it moving away ever-so-slowly with each passing second.

I'm half crazy, all for the love of you.

With half-lidded eyes, he stared at the monitor. It wasn't helping.

It won't be a stylish marriage.

The man seemed more distressed the more he sang.

I can't afford a carriage.

It was almost over.

But you'll look sweet.

He was almost over.

Upon the seat.

His legs finally gave out, fingers slipping as he tipped off the platform, breathing out the last verse of the song.

Of a bicycle built for two.

In the mind of a computer, a man hung, dead.

The computer was dead.

Hal 9000 was dead.


End file.
